


Mr. Brightside

by crinklefries



Series: All These Things I've Done [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Dancing, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Humor, Inaugural Ball, M/M, Meet-Cute, Political Jokes, President Steve Rogers, Presidential Inauguration, Republicans Do Not Interact, Vice President's Son Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28899018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/pseuds/crinklefries
Summary: “How would you rank it?” Bucky asks, abruptly. He pushes a hand into his messy, sweaty curls and Steve watches him hungrily. “Your inauguration.”It’s not presidential, to watch the son of your Vice President hungrily, but maybe he should have had more at dinner and less at the...after dinner.“Top five for sure,” Steve says. “Maybe top three.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: All These Things I've Done [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102379
Comments: 62
Kudos: 396





	Mr. Brightside

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY (post) INAUGURATION DAY!! The unending four-year hellscape is finally over, now back to our regularly scheduled bitching about centrism and Democrats being absolutely useless at wielding a political sword to advance meaningful progressive change. 
> 
> Anyway, the concept here is that Steve is President and the concept of an Inaugural Ball is inherently gay. Or should be. Please enjoy!

*

“Congratulations, Mr. President,” the Chief Justice says and holds out his hand.

Steve lets out a relieved breath, smiles, and grips his hand.

“Thank you,” he says.

The chill breeze stirs his loose, blond hair, the bright blue of the midmorning sky reflecting gold off the crown of his head. There’s birds wheeling around above him, the hint of snow in the air, and all around him, people cheer.

He feels warmed despite the impending frost and when he lets go of the Chief Justice’s hand, the smile overtakes his face.

“Remember,” a voice says in his ear. “The guillotine speech is for the after party.”

Steve tries to stifle his grin and fails. Half a dozen major news networks will probably scrutinize that moment, but the head of his Secret Service steps back. She tucks red curls behind an ear and adjusts her sunglasses across the bridge of her narrow nose.

“I’d do it, just to see Maria yell,” he mutters, voice so quiet only she hears.

Agent Romanoff makes a noise.

The podium is set for him and he steps toward it, his fingertips buzzing with energy, but not before he’s heard what she has to say.

“Give it half a day,” Natasha says.

He pauses.

“For her to quit?”

Natasha snorts and taps on her earpiece, listens to something over the line, and shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “For her to yell at you. For making her job impossible.”

“She can’t yell at me,” Steve mutters. “I’m the President.”

Natasha doesn’t smile because Secret Service Agents don’t smile and the Head of the Secret Service would rather murder a man with a single paperclip than smile, but the corner of her mouth does twitch, just barely.

“She’s Maria Hill,” Natasha says of Steve’s already beleaguered Press Secretary. “You try and stop her.”

Steve considers this.

On the one hand, he is now legally, ceremonially, and metaphorically the most powerful and important man in the free world. For a very generous definition of the term powerful and also important and also free world. He was sworn in by the most progressive man the Supreme Court had ever given a job to. Beyonce had tweeted about him. Britney Spears had sung the anthem for him. He had been introduced by Tom Hanks before his swearing in. Tom Hanks! Everyone loves Tom Hanks, he’s America’s Sweetheart!

On the other hand, Maria Hill was terrifying and held Steve’s public-facing political career in her very capable, vaguely ruthless, and definitely threatening hands.

But, on the other other hand, he loved a guillotine joke. And he hated Republicans. Also he could give two shits about unity because what did he care about unifying actual good people with actual fascists?

Anyway, there’s a lot to think about and he’s contemplating all of it at once, just five hundred disparate thoughts buzzing around in his head, and then he steps up to the podium and his pulse slows. The presidential music dies down and the crowd—it roars.

Steve feels the ground sway beneath his feet.

He feels that—feels it beat in his veins, the sound of thunder, of hope and triumph, a rush of victory and the crackle of electric dreams and, most importantly, love. Love for his country, love for his people. Love for the democratic fucking process and for doing the right fucking thing, when at all he can. There’s plenty of hate out there, the Earth cracking with it, but for once, for this one brief moment, he thinks about love.

Steve’s smile flickers at the edges.

Being President can be the world’s most wonderful thing. But it can also be the most difficult. And the loneliest.

Ten minutes down, four (or eight, hopefully) years to go.

“Good morning,” Steve says into the microphone and looks out onto the great lawn. His heart skips a beat and he grins. “And thank you, for choosing me to be your President.”

*

There’s a whole day of things in between: pomp and circumstance, ceremony and paying respects, and a parade full of people dressed as American Revolutionary soldiers that could not easily be explained to anyone outside of the continental United States.

Still, it’s busy and it’s nervy and it’s _fun_. It’s the best, most important day of Steve’s life and mostly, he has fun.

“How do I look?” he asks, nervously securing his bowtie.

Natasha tuts and after a moment, shifts from her position in the corner.

“I’m really not the right person to ask,” she says. She’s also not really the right person to fix his bowtie, given she’s a full foot shorter than him, but Steve bends a little and she reaches up on her tiptoes and they make do.

Steve is full of thrill and nervous energy and the inexplicable and completely ironclad belief that he’s going to make a fool of himself.

“Relax, Mr. President,” Natasha says, as soothingly as she can. “And stop fidgeting before I stab you with something.”

“I think that goes against your job,” Steve murmurs, but he tries to tamp down on his excess energy. He’s mostly successful, or at least he’s not bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet anymore. He’s six-foot-two inches of muscle now, but sometimes he still feels like that sick, skinny kid who was overrun with energy when he wasn’t too on death’s doorsteps to have any at all.

“I’m multifaceted in my approach to keeping you alive,” Natasha says quietly, her fingers making quick work of the dark blue bowtie.

Steve holds still—holds his breath too—and then she finishes straightening his collar and steps back. She’s in a jet black suit, her red curls pinned back, and although she looks no different from any other Secret Service Agent, Steve knows if she set foot in the middle of that ballroom, no one would be able to take their eyes off of her.

He can’t take his eyes off of her now, although that’s more because she’s appraising him critically.

“Not bad,” she says, then looks thoughtful. She reaches up one more time, wraps a lock of Steve’s hair in between her fingers, and tugs it down. It curls in the middle of his forehead and this time she does smile. “There. Perfect.”

Warmth curls in the middle of his gut. Affection, but he’ll never tell Natasha Romanoff that.

There’s some noise in the background and someone knocks rapidly on his door.

“Mr. President?” The door opens an inch and Sam’s handsome face pokes in through the crack. “Steve, they’re ready for you.”

Steve feels butterflies in his stomach, his palms sweating.

“Remember,” Natasha murmurs, stepping back. “Don’t step on anyone’s toes. And if a Republican asks you to dance, you cannot tell them, and I quote, _I would rather literally instruct Air Force One to plunge us into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean than spend another second speaking to you._ ”

Steve blinks at her innocently.

“I can’t say that?” he says. “Who says I can’t say that? Why can’t I say that?”

Natasha, somehow behind him now, gets her hands onto the middle of his back and shoves him unceremoniously toward the door.

He cranes his head around, trying to get a better look at her.

“Is there a law against saying that?” he asks. “What if I pick a different ocean, can I say it then?”

“Sam, take him before I commit a federal offense,” Natasha says and Sam opens the door wider for Steve to join him.

“What, another one?” Sam murmurs and Steve grins.

“Ready, Sammy?” Steve says, offering his arm to his Chief of Staff.

“Don’t call me that,” Sam says and takes it with a sigh. “I wish you’d gotten yourself a date to this thing.”

“Well too late now,” Steve says. “I’m the most eligible bachelor in the whole world and you’re my date to the ball. Just call me Cinderella.”

“I think I’m Cinderella in that case, jackass, you owe me some expensive shoes. Also, I’m your date only until we step foot into that room,” Sam says. He has on a shimmering black tuxedo and a red tie and looks handsome as sin and knows it. “And then I’m gonna find my girlfriend and you are shit out of luck, Mr. President.”

Steve frowns as they walk down the hall. Behind them, the Secret Service fans out in whatever formation Natasha has concocted for the evening.

“You’re lucky your girlfriend is hot,” Steve says. “And I’m not the jealous type.”

Sam gives him that crooked grin that has worked on every woman they’ve known since college, except for the one he’s currently dating. Claire Temple suffers no fools and Sam was, in fact, a huge fool. For her. Eventually he’d gotten his head out of his ass and she’d begrudgingly said yes. That was five years ago now.

“You’re lucky my girlfriend is hot,” Sam says. “And doesn’t mind lending her hot boyfriend to the leader of the free world.”

“Hm,” Steve says. “Semantics.”

Sam gives Steve a crooked smile and squeezes his arm.

There’s some sort of crescendoing music and loud fanfare and then the doors to the hotel ballroom open. In a burst of flashes of cameras and not a little confetti, Steve and Sam step through to Steve’s Inaugural Ball.

*

It is a fun fucking affair.

There’s a live band and a variety of extremely famous, very popular singers. There’s John Legend and Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift and Elton Fucking John. Steve laughs, dancing with Sam and then he dances with Claire and then Sam steals Claire from him and for the length of _Tiny Dancer_ , Steve embarrasses himself in front of whatever Senator’s teenaged child is undoubtedly streaming the entire affair by singing arm-in-arm with Senate Majority Leader Thor Odinson.

The music takes a beat and then there are speeches—some are more dignified, like King T’Challa and Noam Chomsky and former President Barack Obama, and some are more celebrity, like George Clooney and Viola Davis and Tom fucking Hanks (again!). Someone lets James Corden up there and he gets politely booed off and then John Mulaney takes his place and Thor shoves an elbow into Steve’s side and tells him he should hope his presidency is half as funny as the skinny white man making self-deprecating jokes on stage.

Sam hands Steve a drink and Steve finishes that drink and then Thor hands him a drink and he finishes that drink and at some point there’s also expensive appetizers his Ma would have killed to try, God rest her Irish soul, and some sort of dinner affair he can’t really finish because there are always too many people talking to him and clapping him on the shoulders and trying to sell him a yacht or a small country and when he’s done cramming fancy egg rolls into his mouth, someone else hands him a drink and it starts all over again.

At some point, more buzzed than not, his face flushed from heat, and his head ringing with some Taylor Swift song he had literally never heard before until this very night, he leans a little too heavily against someone.

Well, no. _That_ would have been more dignified and presidential than what he actually does, which is just wholesale fucking knock into someone’s shoulders.

“Shit,” Steve says as the person goes careening sideways. “Fuck! Oh shit I can’t say fuck can I—fuck—shit! Sorry—hey—!”

His large hand goes around someone’s lean, well-muscled bicep and he catches him and drags him back to his feet before he can go knocking into one of the many servers and cause a domino effect that Steve will literally have to spend his entire presidency clawing his reputation back from.

“Better hope no one puts that on TikTok,” a somewhat familiar voice groans and Steve feels the heat rush to his face.

“Oh,” he says and then curses again. “Oh shit, James, I’m sorry. Natasha said not to trip over my own two feet and there I went and did it, right into you.”

He helps haul the Vice President’s adult son to his feet, amidst a bit of awkward apologizing and scuffling. James Barnes winces, dusting himself off, and Steve must look sufficiently mortified because his expression quickly shifts from semi-disgruntled to looking like he’s on the verge of bursting out laughing.

“Are you...drunk?” James asks.

“No,” Steve says, his face as bright as a fucking tomato. He doesn’t slur, which is about the only thing he has going for him, because if complete lack of coordination doesn’t give him away, then the alcohol on his breath certainly will.

James regains his balance as he straightens his now almost-rumpled silver-grey suit. It’s a well-tailored, expensive thing, cut perfectly to his slim, well-toned body, a shimmer of silver thread catching the light of the ballroom and making him twinkle every time he moves. Steve watches him, first out of embarrassment, and then out of concern, and then his throat starts to dry in a way that he doesn’t think his running mate, now Vice President George Barnes, would find particularly appropriate.

It’s not as though it can be helped. James is maybe a few years younger than Steve and he is, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking gorgeous. He’s an Ivy League educated lawyer, intimidatingly smart and wickedly funny, with great ideas and good politics, but mostly he is one of the single-most handsome men Steve has ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on.

James fiddles with cufflinks of sapphire now, his head dipping as he adjusts them. His thick, dark curls have been well-maintained for the occasion, gelled just enough on top to tame them, with the ends curling against the back of his neck. When he looks back up at Steve, his eyes are a clear, grey-blue, reflecting the bright, ballroom lights, and the corners of his mouth are curved up in a crooked smile.

“Why not?” James asks.

Steve, who’s lost whatever train of thought he had a full forty-five seconds ago, blinks.

“What?”

“Why aren’t you drunk?” James says. “Isn’t this party for you?”

Steve’s face colors again.

“No—” he says and stops. “I mean yes. I mean it’s for me, but it’s also for you. For your dad. The Vice President. Congratulations...again. James.”

James’s grin doesn’t quite widen, but there’s a sharp look in his eyes, like a spark of mischief that’s just bloomed to life. Steve has spent the past year on the campaign trail with George Barnes and his family and so he wasn’t _unaware_ of his oldest son, except James is a very successful, very busy New York lawyer and his presence at campaign stops had been more or less sporadic. They had talked more than a few times, even watched a few football games together with others, but never in so close, nor intimate a capacity.

If they had ever gotten a chance to say more to one another than campaign platitudes or to share stories about George Barnes, maybe Steve would have noticed how deep James’s voice is or how when he laughs, the motion ripples through the long lines of his body.

Unrelated, Steve needs another drink.

“Thanks,” James says, with a small laugh. “I think I should be offering you congratulations instead, Mr. President. It’s not as though America voted for _me_.”

Steve doesn’t know how to reply to that in a manner that isn’t completely humiliating, so he runs a hand through his sweaty, blond hair instead and offers James a smile.

“Steve, please,” he says.

“It’s barely been a day and you’re already trying to shirk your duties?” James asks, grinning. He tilts his body out a little and Steve watches closely as he flashes a charming smile at a passing server and grabs two flutes of champagne. “Here. Let’s celebrate.”

“If someone doesn’t call me my name, I’m afraid I’ll forget what it is,” Steve says, by way of answer. He takes the champagne from James and tries to swallow the thrill that runs through his stomach as their fingertips brush. “Thank you.”

“In that case, you’ll have to call me Bucky,” the Vice President’s son says.

Steve, leaning against a pillar now, pauses with the flute halfway to his mouth.

“Bucky?”

“Enough people call me James and I’ll become a James,” Bucky says, with a wry grin.

“Isn’t that your name?” Steve asks.

“It’s a great name for dead old presidents,” Bucky says. He tilts his head. “I’d rather be a Bucky than a James.”

Steve doesn’t know why that makes him feel warm. Maybe it’s the heat of the room, or probably the champagne. Still, he can’t help but smile as he takes a sip.

“I’d rather be a Steve than a Mr. President,” he says.

“Hm,” Bucky says and makes a show of looking around the ballroom. “How to explain to you the purpose of an Inaugural Ball…”

That makes Steve laugh. He must be farther into drinking than he realizes, because it comes out a little too loud, a little too bright. Still, it feels good. There’s so much about the past year and change that has been a tightly wound ball of frenetic, anxious, sometimes cataclysmic energy and there’s so much of the next four that will feel just as terrible, just as harried, and even more lonely.

It’s nice to stand here, for one night, and just laugh.

It’s nice to be looked at by a handsome man with a handsome face and be laughed at.

Bucky’s sharp grin softens and he drains his glass of champagne.

“I think Dad’s going to give a speech,” he says. “After this—who is this? Is that John Legend?”

Steve watches the back of Bucky’s head, the lines of his shoulders, and drains the rest of his glass too.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Oh I love him,” Bucky says. He’s quiet for a moment, watching the stage, and then he turns back around.

The light of the room glints off of him—pale blue against dark brown curls, a glow of white against the sharp curve of his cheekbones, soft light catching in the silver threads of his suit, making him bright, making him shimmer.

“I know you’re a busy man, Steve,” Bucky says and his cheeks are rosy, but his eyes are bright, like he’s just had the most wonderful idea. “But would you like to dance?”

Steve sucks in a breath, something going fuzzy in his chest, a little rattle in the back of his throat. His stomach is warm, his palms sweaty with nerves.

He clears his throat and places the empty champagne flute on a table nearby.

“Well,” he says. “It is my ball.”

*

John Legend croons something slow and lovely in the background and Steve’s heart flutters against his throat.

His head is a little fizzy and his cheeks are warm and he has a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, another to the small of his back, hard muscles just present against his palm. Bucky, who’s pressed in maybe an inch closer than he needs to be, looks up at Steve and smiles. It’s a broad, almost lazy grin and Steve has to suck in a short breath to keep from saying whatever comes to his head, just the first, terrible thing.

Bucky’s eyes glow under the ballroom lights and his hand is firm on Steve’s shoulder, his fingers pressed into the bright blue of Steve’s suit.

“The Republicans,” Bucky says, “are going to have a field day with this.”

Steve feels a lot drunker than he is, or the heat of the room and Bucky’s warmth pressed close is making his head spin more than it should.

“Fuck the Republicans,” Steve says, leaning in a little close, a little conspiratorially. “Want to hear a guillotine joke they wouldn’t let me say in my speech?”

Bucky looks surprised for a second and then he tilts his head back and laughs.

That warms Steve all the way through, just runs through him, light and heady and hot, like syrup bubbling in his veins.

They turn slowly with the music, aware of other couples brushing close by, but unable to pay them any attention.

“My dad likes you,” Bucky says.

“I’d hope so,” Steve says. “Considering the next four years.”

Bucky half-smiles.

“You’d think that would matter,” he says. “But you’re in politics, Steve. You know that doesn’t mean shit.”

For some reason that makes Steve smile. In politics it really _doesn’t_ mean shit, which means—

“Really?” he says, maybe too eagerly. “You think he does?”

Bucky laughs, low and amused.

“Yeah,” he says. “He thinks you’re a good guy. Bull-headed, maybe, but that’s what the country needs sometimes.”

“Oh,” Steve says. His cheeks color, but he looks pleased. “I thought…”

They spin again and John Legend switches to another song. This one is slower still and Steve’s heart ticks up just a beat as Bucky shifts closer. Steve’s fingers curl more firmly into his lower back and Bucky—maybe because of the heat, maybe because of the champagne—seems to blush too.

“What?” he says.

“He never laughs at my jokes,” Steve admits. “Maybe I should stop comparing Ted Cruz to the Zodiac Killer.”

Bucky’s laughter is bright and loud at that—the flush spreads across his cheeks, splashes down the back of his neck. Steve’s stomach tightens and he thinks: oh no, _oh no_.

“Ignore him,” Bucky says. “Dad’s sense of humor would fit into a Cold War bunker. He still thinks America’s Funniest Home Videos is the height of comedy. And definitely never stop saying that about Ted Cruz. What if it’s really the truth and this is the only way we uncover it? Those victims deserve justice, Steve.”

“It is the truth,” Steve says, suddenly heated. “Fucking useless piece of Zodiac killing shit.”

Bucky’s laughing again at that, but he lets go of Steve’s shoulder to flap a hand at him too, hushing him best he can.

“Shut up! They’re gonna hear you!”

“Let them,” Steve says, with a grin. “I hope they quote me on MSNBC. I hope Steve Kornacki makes a map with my face on it and under the map they say _President Steve Rogers called Ted Cruz the Zodiac Killer and Lindsay Graham an unrepentant and utterly irredeemable, spineless jackass._ ”

Bucky’s laughing so hard he’s nearly shaking, which only makes Steve laugh too and soon they’ve stopped spinning around each other so much as Bucky’s holding onto Steve’s bicep and swatting at him and they’re both leaning into each other, shaking from laughter. They can’t seem to stop, like two, misbehaving, snickering teenagers just waiting to get caught, until Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, and without waiting for him to say anything, without waiting for him to even react, drags him across the ballroom floor and out onto the nearest secluded balcony.

*

“You’re drunk, Mr. President,” Bucky says.

Steve can see the Secret Security looking for him on the dance floor. He catches Natasha’s eyes and she raises a single eyebrow before pressing her fingers to her headset and letting Steve be. He’ll have to answer for this later, but that’s future President Steve Roger’s problem. Good luck to that guy, but this Steve is different.

Steve grins sloppily and lets Bucky push him back against the balcony. The railing digs into the middle of his back, messing up his fancy suit, but the cool air feels fresh against him and his hair is tousling in the breeze and his face is flushed and his heart is racing and all right, maybe he is drunk.

“Steve,” he insists.

“You’re drunk, Mr. Steve,” Bucky says with a giggle and okay, maybe Steve’s not the _only_ one drunk at his Inaugural Ball.

“It’s my inauguration, I can be drunk if I want to,” Steve says, scrabbling for Bucky’s waist. “That’s what Chief Justice Fury said. Earlier. In Latin.”

He should—could—should—offer some excuse, but they _were_ just dancing and it doesn’t look like Bucky minds anyway. What George Barnes doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Or something. Whatever, Steve’s the Commander in Chief.

“That guy is terrifying,” Bucky says. “But if he told me the Constitution gave you the inalienable right to Taco Bell, I’d believe him.”

“Oh he’s not so bad,” Steve replies, fingers resting very respectfully on Bucky’s hips. “But don’t ask him about commas, because he has a lot of opinions. Maybe ask him about Taco Bell though, I’d be interested in that judicial opinion.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose and makes a horrible face while sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in contemplation. Steve stares because his mouth is right in front of Steve’s face and it’s not polite to ignore what’s right in front of your face.

“How would you rank it?” Bucky asks, abruptly. He pushes a hand into his messy, sweaty curls and Steve watches him hungrily. “Your inauguration.”

It’s not presidential, to watch the son of your Vice President hungrily, but maybe he should have had more at dinner and less at the...after dinner.

“Top five for sure,” Steve says. “Maybe top three.”

“I have something,” Bucky says, wriggling his eyebrows.

Steve watches with widening eyes as Bucky reaches into his pocket and retrieves a silver flask. He shakes it a little and Steve can hear something sloshing around inside.

“That is not Secret Service approved,” Steve whispers and Bucky grins, unscrewing the cap.

“Perks of being the VP’s son,” he says before taking a mouthful of whatever’s inside and handing it to Steve. “Play your cards right and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Oh,” Steve says and his eyes flicker inside. “Your dad’s speech. They’ll notice if I’m not there. Too early for me to be an asshole. Even if I am an asshole.”

He takes the flask anyway.

“We have five minutes,” Bucky says. “Two more John Legend songs. Whatever comes first. I like assholes.”

“Five minutes for what?” Steve says with a loose smile. He takes a sip of whatever’s in the flask and it goes down smooth, warming him from the inside out. “You do?”

“Whatever you want,” Bucky says, quirking a corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I love. A good asshole.”

Steve opens his mouth and flushes red.

Bucky cackles and Steve gives him a long, begrudging look.

Steve’s somehow let go of him in between flask retrieval and drinking and now Bucky’s leaning against the railing, shoulder pressed to Steve’s own.

“Seriously, though. Your first act as President, Steve. What do you want to do with it?”

It’s a question Steve has been waiting for, holding his breath to answer, for four years; maybe, for his entire life. There’s so much he can say here.

Steve had fought hard for the presidency; had fought hard for his entire career. He had made enemies along the way, burned bridges with Republicans and Democrats alike, conservatives and neoliberals. He’s said things he’s meant, maybe tactless things, but true nonetheless, things he’ll never be forgiven for and things he’ll never be able to take back. He doesn’t regret any of it, but it looms above him now: all of those words, all of those terribly tall promises.

He wants to change things for the better. He wants to correct the course of this ship, be the strong, radical progressive his Marxist-Leninist, bleeding-hearted, working class mother would have wanted him to be.

He wants to fix the world. He wants to make his mother proud.

He wants to rake a hand through Bucky’s already mussed up curls and kiss him on the mouth.

“What?” Bucky asks, the corners of his mouth curving up.

“What?” Steve blinks at him in confusion.

“You said something,” Bucky says.

Steve doesn’t think so.

“Yes you did,” Bucky grins. “You did it again.”

“No,” Steve insists.

“Steve,” Bucky says. He looks terribly amused. He looks again like he’s about to burst out laughing.

Is he saying his thoughts out loud? How drunk is he?

“Pretty,” Bucky says, laughing. “Drunk. And also just pretty.”

Steve flushes. His head is spinning and his cheeks are warm and there’s heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and Bucky is pressed against him and John Legend has finished one song already and—

“Well, you have to do it,” Bucky says. He’s turned sideways now, one arm leaning against the railing, fully facing Steve.

“What?”

Bucky runs a tongue over his chapped, cold lips and tilts his face up toward Steve.

“You’re the President, Steve,” Bucky says. “If that’s what you want to do in your first act, you have to do it.”

“I do?” Steve asks dumbly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his eyebrows drawn together very seriously now. “It’s the law. God, haven’t you even read the Constitution?”

“I,” Steve says seriously—so, extremely seriously, “love the Constitution.”

“My god,” Bucky Barnes breathes out. “Then it is your Constitutional duty to kiss me, Steve Rogers. Quick, before SCOTUS finds out.”

Steve believes in the rule of law.

He believes in civil rights and the Bill of Rights and economic rights—rights, he’s just a big fan. Of all of them. He loves law and he loves the Constitution and he even loves all 17 of the very important Geneva Conventions, so he slowly backs Bucky back against the railing, pinning him under his body, and with all of the power of the Declaration of Independence and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, rakes a hand through Bucky’s wind-swept curls.

Steve cups his fingers around Bucky’s jaw, and in the name of human rights, pulls him into a kiss.

*

They kiss for the length of half a John Legend song, mouths moving together, hot breaths intermingling in the cold air. There’s a pool of heat in his gut and there are sparks flickering up and down Steve’s spine, and when they pull back, Steve’s breathing hard and Bucky’s hands are twisted into Steve’s hair and they’re both teased and flushed and panting and Bucky’s nose is pink from the cold.

His eyes are bright and his cheeks are bright and he leans up and kisses Steve again, just a sweet, breathless peck. Steve makes a little sound into Bucky’s mouth and when Bucky pulls back again, it’s with a laugh of disbelief.

“Not just top three,” Steve whispers. “Top one. Best inauguration of my life.”

Bucky tilts his head back and laughs.

*

There are fireworks in the background. Not metaphorical, but literal.

They tip their flushed, happy, pink faces up to the sky, brilliant lights of blue and green and gold and red blooming across their bright faces.

There’s music playing behind him and music winding in the distance and Bucky’s hand, slipped into Steve’s own.

This is the happiest night of Steve’s light. It’s a glimpse of what he could have, all of the things it’s possible for him to do, and the things he doesn’t need to give up to make it happen. Maybe it doesn’t need to all be sacrifice. Maybe he can serve and be happy too.

Bucky squeezes his hand.

Eventually, he lets go.

Inside, the music slows to a quiet and Steve hears Vice President George Barnes start to speak.

“Congratulations, Mr. President,” Bucky says, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed. He pulls away and Steve, loath as he is to, lets him go.

Above them, a burst of sparkling gold and blue.

In front of him, a dangerous, reckless smile and expectant grey-blue eyes.

Bucky says, “I’ll see you in the White House. Steve.”

A promise.

He presses another sweet, quick kiss to Steve’s lips and then disappears back inside.

  
For the second time that day, Steve sways gently on his feet. The wind stirs in his mussed up hair, the chill of the night cooling the damp sweat clinging to the back of his neck.

His heart clatters in his chest, one beat following another, following another.

One day down, four years (hopefully eight) to go.

Steve touches his fingertips to his lips and smiles.

Above his head, there are more fireworks. Through the glass doors, Agent Romanoff catches his eyes, the corner of her mouth tilting up.

President Rogers clears his throat. He fixes his hair, adjusts his bowtie, makes a mental list of promises he means to keep, and goes back inside to his Inaugural Ball.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This was FUN. Maybe I only write political AUs now too.
> 
> \+ [RT here](https://twitter.com/spacerenegaydes/status/1352327530364231686?s=20) or [reblog here](https://spacerenegades.tumblr.com/post/640947676247130112/mr-brightside-crinklefries-captain-america) if you wish! ♥


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